Holiday at the Daae Cabin
by SummerRose12
Summary: Set before the Phantom sang into our hearts; Gustave has taken his young daughter, Christine to their cabin outside of Paris. With Raoul de Chagny acting as company, it is bound to be a good holiday. Or so Gustave says. Oneshot!


**A/N: This was originally written for deviantart, but it got such positive feedback that I wanted to share it on FF. ^_^ Plus, it's my first phanfiction that I've ever written, and I'm quite happy with it. Please enjoy!**

Gustave Daae had never sat down and watched the snow fall, not even as a child. Perhaps it was the rush of life that forced him to grow with the seasons. This wasn't the norm for his daughter, though. Gustave did well to make sure Christine had a full childhood. Her education was well underway, but her naïve nature was still growing in vitality.

She skipped around in the piles of snow by herself, catching small, falling flakes on her tongue and frequently readjusting her large bonnet. He watched her from the window quietly, fingering the keys of his piano. The tune he had roughly put together was cheery and playful, but Gustave often added a slow melody to the end. Something sad and sweet that emphasized the beginning tune. However, he was stifled, and from what he deduced, his daughter was serving him as an innocent distraction.

Such wonderment in one so small.

Christine's happiness kept Gustave content with life. Yet it couldn't last. Things changed too easily, even in this delicate stage of life for both members of the Daae family. Sighing softly, Gustave moved away from the Piano, and instead watched his daughter as she tossed herself into a snow bank nearby. For a moment, all he saw was a still figure in several layers of skirts, but his worries eased themselves as her legs and arms slid up and down to form what she must have intended to be a snow angel. From where he watched her, the indent appeared more like a bell. The small girl seemed happy with her work, even with the flakes of snow in her hair and blanketed on her backside.

Gustave couldn't help but laugh. He realized Christine's most amusing features really showed on this kind of day. She was simply a child in her element; a vibrant fairy dancing in the snow. Yet, around strangers, she grew more quiet and self-contained. Perhaps that would be ideal for such a girl in a public setting, but in the Heaven's name, Christine had a God-given gift! There was not another soul that was more pleasing to listen to; more beautiful in her own way! Whatever she would live on to do with her life, the tired Violinist hoped it sustained that vague, charming quality she possessed.

A gust of wind flew flakes of snow at the window, putting Gustave in less of a mind to sit and watch the cold weather. Instead, he sat back down at his piano, prepared to continue his toying with melodies. However, he was stopped as the door opened, and his daughter entered inside, shivering. Gustave smiled sympathetically, standing up to remove her coat and brush the snow from it. "You be careful, Little Lotte," he said, bending down to remove the bonnet from her head. "All that winter today might give you a chill."

Christine simply giggled as she bent down to unlace her boots, both having chunks of snow covering the exterior edges. "But, Papa, it's not so cold! The sun is out!"

"But perhaps you've had enough snow for one day." He replied, giving her a light kiss on the forehead. Christine childishly pouted, but the matter was quickly forgotten as she brushed the rest of the snow from her dress and sat down on the piano bench, fingering at the keys like her father taught her. Gustave smiled as he sat beside her, patiently watching her play a singular tune not even recorded on paper.

"You're doing very well..." Gustave complimented. He chuckled as her eyes shined more at the given praise, "Perhaps you can sing Herr Mannelig while I play?" he asked, referring to a sad, medieval song learned when Gustave grew up in Scandinavia. He softly started playing as she sang in a small, immature voice:

"Bittida en morgon innan solen upprann  
>Innan foglarna började sjunga<br>Bergatrollet friade till fager ungersven  
>Hon hade en falskeliger tunga…"<p>

Gustave sighed in disappointment, knowing that his girl could do better than this. "Louder, Christine," he told her, adding a crescendo into the accompaniment.

"Herr Mannelig herr Mannelig trolofven i mig  
>För det jag bjuder så gerna<br>I kunnen väl svara endast ja eller nej  
>Om i viljen eller ej…"<p>

Gustave smiled softly as he struck a final chord, ending crisply to finish the song on short. Christine blinked up to him curiously, "Didn't I do it right, Papa?"

"You did it perfectly." He replied, lightly tapping underneath her chin. For only a girl of nine, Gustave saw the talent in his child, regardless of the shrillness in her voice. Someday, she would have the voice of her mother. "But that's a long song. Don't want to be wearing out your voice so soon. Not until the Count comes so you can sing pretty for him and his boys."

"And you'll play while I sing?" she asked hopefully.

Gustave laughed, "Do you know anyone else who could?"

…

It was not uncommon to see several guests arrive at the Daae estate. It was not an extravagant place to visit, yet moving to Paris caused particular attention to the family. Unshakeable popularity was not Gustave's forte, even if performing in front of crowds was. A man was entitled to his privacy. That was why he decided to invest in a cabin outside of Paris. It was good for Christine to spend her winters. They would both have nothing but the miles of snow-powdered trees and the aroma of ice lingering outside during the cold, clear nights. Such peacefulness was healthy.

Yet he couldn't separate Christine from her friend, Raoul; the future proprietor of a Vicomte status. He was a haughty young lad, but Christine seemed to like him. They'd met when the boy came racing to retrieve her scarf. The two youths were inseparable ever since. The Comte, Raoul's father, and his older boy, Phillipe, normally came along for short visits to the cabin. Raoul was the one who usually insisted staying a night or two.

And the family usually complied.

Very few words were spoken between adults. Most of the time, they would talk of their children; how much pride they had in them. The days they spent, Gustave tried to accompany the Comte and Phillipe, but it was at night he enjoyed the company of the younger children.

It was snowing again in the middle of the night. Almost a blizzard. Gustave couldn't help but find amusement in Christine's small hands and face pressed up against cold glass, staring out at the moonlit snow in wonderment. Raoul did not have such childish curiosity. He was sitting next to his friend, but paid more attention to a book. How could little ones like these, both practically the same age, differ so much?

Chuckling quietly, Gustave played the soothing rhythms of the violin. While his other guests slept peacefully, he would always enjoy serenading to the night. His daughter adored the playing, and often tried to hum along with the melodies. Yet only when it was just them. Her attention was on her Raoul tonight.

"Papa?" Christine turned her head over to him, her straggly curls brushed over her face.

"What is it, dear?" he mumbled.

The small girl sat down properly before padding over to him. She placed her small hand on the bow string, the sweet, seraphic look in her eyes becoming present. "Tell us a story? About Little Lotte? Please?"

His interest shifting, Raoul closed his book. "I like that one." He said, his voice urging Gustave almost as much as Christine's.

Surrendering to the juvenile endeavors, Gustave placed his violin next to his chair's side. "Get the book, would you, _ma petite_?" Christine smiled widely as she raced over to the book shelf, searching frantically for their favorite. They kept a few copies, one for the cabin and the other in Paris. How could Gustave deny his own daughter in her favorite story?

As she handed the book to him, Raoul sat cross-legged next to Christine, both eager to listen. Christine's head quickly popped up as she tapped his knee. "Papa? Read just that one passage about Little Lotte?"

Gustave glanced up at her, smiling as he started flipping through passages to the favored part in the story. Clearing his throat, Gustave followed the lines carefully,

"'Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music…'"

That mere few sentences made both Christine and Raoul smile. There had been a jest between the three of them that the character, Little Lotte was almost perfectly similar to Christine. The nickname came naturally, of course. "Wow…" she murmured, smiling as if the quotations were a verse in scriptures. "Papa… have you ever heard the angel of music?"

Gustave sighed sadly as he placed the book to the side. It was a curious question she asked. He had often thought that the Angel was more than just a spiritual figure of music. It was a rhythm in life; melodies that only could be heard in the Heavens and what humans would only hear after life. If anyone deserved to hear such audible beauty, it would be no simple, sickly musician. If anyone should hear the Angel of Music, it would be Christine. "No," he responded, smiled softly. "But you will hear him one day, my child. When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you."

He wasn't sure if the look on her face was that of horror or excitement, but she did not get a chance to reply. Gustave turned away as a sudden urge to cough. Clearing his throat several times, Gustave stood up, quickly pulling out a kerchief from his pocket. "Christine, Raoul…" Gustave looked down at their unsettled eyes, his voice sounding hoarse and flat. "…Time for bed now. Go on… to your rooms. I'll say goodnight shortly."

Without even checking to see if the children would follow directions, Gustave quickly walked outside, closing the doors behind him as he breathed in the cold night air. The snowing had lightened and the trail was still clear. Maybe the freshness would help.

Yet it put him into a coughing fit once again; one that hurt him. Kneeling down on the ground, Gustave continued hacking into the snow. It felt like a pebble was lodged in his throat; maybe something bigger.

In a few minutes of coughing, Gustave leaned up and wiped his mouth of any residue that remained. What he tried to ignore was the sight of blood splattered lightly over the moonlit snow.

Was it unwise to ignore his health? Yes, of course it was. Yet he knew what a doctor would say about his condition. There wasn't any point.

He was no physician, but he was hoping to live around a few years; at least until Christine could care for herself. Unfortunately for him, the future was unknown. All he could rely on was God keeping his health plentiful.

Shivering, Gustave checked up by the window. And suddenly, his heart melted at his daughter's face watching him with a quiet smile. Had his grave been just walk on, it was redeemed by the flowers placed nearby from Little Lotte. Her smile was as warm as springtime.

Gesturing her that he would be going back inside, Gustave buried his handkerchief into his coat pocket. Christine gave him a small wave before disappearing from the frosted window. Yet her hand prints remained visible on the glass. As his eyes wandered back to the door, Gustave privately thought a rose had just budded in winter.

…


End file.
